Disclaimer: I own nothing, nothing I say!
Hate
He doesn't expect everyone to like him.
Even though he's reformed, some people will only ever see a criminal, a villain. Nothing he does will ever atone for the time he spent under his dad's influence. He understands.
Understanding, however, doesn't make it any easier.
The hostages he was sent to help are glaring at him, seeming to prefer being held captive to being saved by him. Time is of the essence—Black Canary's fighting the goons, but she's heavily outnumbered and he has to get to her—yet he has no way of getting them out.
"Please, come on. It's not safe," he insists desperately.
The one man just rubs at his wrists—freed from chains courtesy of the meta-human—and spits, "We're not going anywhere with you."
A canary cry erupts from somewhere down the hallway. A woman, in her mid-forties, says, "We'll wait for the real hero."
He groans to himself. Either these are the six stupidest people on the face of the Earth or they really have no idea how dire the situation is.
"Look, the nut-case who kidnapped you? He harvests organs for the black market. He will kill you and take your organs if you don't get out. Black Canary is fighting him and his lackeys and she needs help, but I can't do that until you're all safe. So if you would just please—"
"Go help her," an older man barks, sitting down on the floor. "We can wait for her."
The others signal their support by taking a seat as well, holding their heads high as though standing for their principals.
"Really?" he demands, flabbergasted. "You seriously…you know what, fine!"
Swallowing his anger, he runs off in the direction of the fray. Five guys are unconscious on the floor, but seven more, including the good doctor himself, are circling the heroine, whipping chains or holding knives. Playing smart, he launches a string of icicles, effectively knocking down three guys. The others turn to the newest threat, giving Canary the opportunity to take down one with an uppercut. Two of the guys realize they don't stand a chance and drop to their knees, but the doctor makes a desperate break for the exit. Not in the mood, Cam creates a small, solid ball of ice and launches it at the back of his head. He drops the floor.
"Thanks for the backup," Canary tells him, tying the conscious thugs together. "Though you could have been a little faster."
She's teasing him, but he can't find it in himself to respond in a similar manner. "They wouldn't leave," he all but growls.
"What?"
"They wouldn't go with me—they said they'll only leave with you."
Her face is void of emotion, but he can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Wordlessly, she heads for the room where the hostages are.
"Black Canary," the older man greets with a polite nod of his head. "Thank you for saving us."
"I didn't do it by myself," she protests, gesturing to her protégé. "Is there any reason you wouldn't leave with Ice?"
They look at one another, silently designating a speaker of the group. The woman from earlier is chosen, getting to her feet and explaining, "We don't trust him."
"Why?" Her voice is harsh, demanding.
"He's a criminal," another man snarls.
Canary narrows her eyes. "Was a criminal. And he was forced to do those things. Now he's turned his life around."
"Please." A new man, middle-aged with a beer gut, continues, "You can't change people like him. Just because the Justice League wants to make some point doesn't mean anything."
"What do you mean, make a point? Ice came by his own free will to become a hero."
"Oh, really? He wasn't caught and sold out the others' to save himself? You Leaguers didn't decide that "reforming" him would be a fun little pet project?"
"No, he wasn't. And no, we didn't." She's annoyed, struggling to keep it together. "And even when he was a villain, he had one of the smallest records in the database."
"Then how come it's sealed?" The older man looks triumphant. "What don't you want the public to know?"
"It's sealed to protect his identity," she explains. "And it doesn't even matter—once he's eighteen, it'll be expunged anyway."
"How wonderful, the law being used to help the villains," sneers an elderly woman.
"I'm not a villain," Cam objects pleadingly.
"Do you know how much damage you caused on the Fourth of July?" The last person finally speaks, a woman around Dinah's age. "How many people you hurt?"
He opens his mouth, but he cannot formulate an intelligent response. Lowering his head, he admits, "No."
"Of course not." Contempt defiles each word. "Because you don't really care, do you? You're nothing but a monster trying to make yourself feel better. You will never be a true hero."
Dinah is livid. "Let's go." She grabs his arm and turns away from the former captives.
"What are you doing?" one of them shrieks. "You can't just leave us!"
"You have legs; you are perfectly capable of walking out of here yourself."
Ignoring their indignant cries, she continues her march out of the run-down hospital, still holding on to his arm. Neither speak, for nothing can possibly be said.
"See you tomorrow," he tells her as they near the street with the zeta-beam transporter. Even in his own ears, his voice seems fragile.
"It's late, Cam. Just stay over. I have plenty of extra rooms."
He nods, agreeing only because debating the issue will take too much time and energy. Under the pure black sky they walk, each consumed with their own thoughts. Glancing heavenward, Cam realizes just how many stars stud the universe, slivers of light. It must be nice, to envelope themselves in the darkness, pinpricks in the nothingness, left alone from the world.
When they get to her house, Dinah says, "Bathroom's down the hall—extra toothbrushes are under the cabinet. You can have the guest room down this way."
"Thanks," he murmurs, shifting to normalcy and quickly moving to clean himself up in hopes of avoiding a talk with her. He is not up to being psychoanalyzed right now.
Of course, being a therapist, she cannot let the matter go. He's just crawled into bed when she gently knocks on the door. "Can I come in?"
"Yeah," he says, lying down, trying to look as tired as possible.
"Are you alright?" she asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Fine."
"Cam, those people… you shouldn't listen to them. If they are so stubborn and arrogant as to not see beyond your past, that is their own problem."
"They would rather die than have me save them. How can I possibly be a hero?"
"You are a hero. Put what they said out of your mind. You are not a monster, okay? You are nothing even close to that. You are a good person who is doing everything he can to help people. And if they can't see that, they're pathetic." Tenderly, she runs her fingers through his hair. "Please, Cam, believe me when I say you are one of the kindest, most compassionate people I know."
"I do." He offers her a small smile. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now sleep tight."
She stands and leaves, and the smile falls from his face. Even with her soothing words, the sting of the encounter is still strong. Maybe he isn't good enough to be a hero; maybe he never will be. The thought makes him feel so very, very small, as though he's eight years old again, listening to his mom and dad debate about who has to raise him.
His communicator suddenly goes off. Without hesitation, he reaches for it. Artemis needs him. She needs him.
Suddenly, he doesn't feel so small anymore.
